


too sad to cry

by ohrouge



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 09:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22425214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohrouge/pseuds/ohrouge
Summary: I'm too sad to cry, too high to get upDon't even try 'cause I'm scared to fuck upDon't like to talk, I just lay in my bed
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	too sad to cry

**Author's Note:**

> songfic based on too sad to cry by sasha sloan
> 
> general warnings for dark thoughts and mental health issues.
> 
> trying something a little different, this may turn into a series. so do say if you have any characters/pairings or song ideas (or both!)

_Wasn't raised religious_

_But I wish that I was_

Charles gazed at the golden altar in front of him. He hadn’t stepped inside this church since his father’s funeral. He hadn’t been inside any church since Anthoine’s. The pews and the nave, the font and the crucifix, they were only reminders of what he had lost. It was beyond him how anyone found any comfort in them.

But perch on the cold, wooden seat he tried. Hands folded, head bowed; the perfect show of respect and devotion. His eyes were fixed on the unmoving face on the statue, praying for something, anything, but he wasn’t exactly sure what.

_And yesterday, I tried to pray_

_But I didn't know what to say_

First he tried praying for his father, for some slither of that comfort only he’d been able to offer. Then he prayed for Jules, for someone with all the right words to say right when he needed to hear them. He prayed for relief from the hollow crack that had started to swallow him whole, from the endless stream of thoughts buzzing in his head. He prayed that he would start to feel something again, something other than emptiness and bitterness and regret.

He felt as he did whenever someone asked him if he was alright. Of course he wasn’t, but he couldn’t find the words to say so.

So he left the church, put his sunglasses on, and stepped out into the warm Riviera sunshine, desperately reaching for that brave face.

_I'm too sad to cry, too high to get up_

_Don't even try 'cause I'm scared to fuck up_

_Don't like to talk, I just lay in my bed_

He loved racing. He really did. God knows it was the only thing that kept him going sometimes. He loved pulling on that red race suit, the prancing horse stitched above his heart. And he loved standing atop the podium, holding the gleaming trophy high and letting the _Inno di Mameli_ fill his ears.

But as the year wore on the pressure hit. Whether it was friction with his teammate or being hounded by the press or the team asking for more and more from him. He wanted it so bad, he wanted to succeed, not just for himself, but for everyone else too. It became a millstone that hung from his neck, another brick laying upon his guilty conscience.

Every DNF, every fourth place, every missed opportunity; it scared him to death. The fear of not quite making it was paralysing. On days like those, where the anxiety consumed him, he found himself lying under the covers way past midday, trying to ignore the sunshine streaming in past his closed curtains.

_Don't even try to go out with my friends_

With the covers pulled over his head he could ignore the gentle buzzing as his phone vibrated on his bedside table. He knew if he looked he would see his girlfriend’s name on the screen. He hadn’t seen her in days and hadn’t replied to any of her messages either. Knowing she cared didn’t make him feel any better, it only filled his stomach with guilt.

He also knew if he picked up his phone he’d see the unanswered messages from his friends. He hadn’t spoken to Pierre since the funeral, not properly anyway. Pierre seemed intent on starting a conversation about Spa, about Charles being distant and cold and acting strange. Those weren’t conversations he was ready to have.

He didn’t want to be reminded of all that had happened and what it had turned him into.

_Lied to my doctor, she knew I was fakin'_

_Gave me some pills, but I'm too scared to take 'em_

In the end, after three missed training sessions in a row, Andrea dragged him to a doctor. He ignored the icy stare Charles sent his way as they sat in his car and almost physically pulled him into the waiting room. Charles supposed he should be glad it wasn’t the team doctor, that at least he was saved from having to explain this to Mattia. He couldn’t have explained it if he tried.

He listened, stony faced, as Andrea explained to the doctor how Charles had been acting. When the doctor asked him any questions, he gave short monosyllabic answers. _I’m fine_, he insisted. But she wasn’t buying it.

He left with a bottle of pills rolling around in the bottom of his bag and a promise to Andrea that he would try fix this.

He hadn’t been home ten minutes when the pills were flushed away down the drainpipe.

_Can't tell my Mamma_

_It makes her worry_

Somewhere along the way he’d lost his appetite. It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry, he just didn’t have the energy to eat or enjoy the food. Not even the home cooked meal his mother had invited him round for. But he chewed the food carefully, tasting nothing.

“How is it?” his mother asked, smiling at him gently. But Charles saw the concern burning in her eyes. He was sure if he looked at his brothers he would see the same reflected in their eyes.

“It’s great,” he said, mustering up all his energy to plaster on a semi-believable grin. It was the same one he used for all the photos with fans, all the press events.

He was fully aware it didn’t work on his family.

_I'm not suicidal_

_Sometimes, the lines get all blurry_

As Charles stood on his balcony, staring out at the Mediterranean Sea he was struck by one beautiful moment of peace. Sometimes he wasn’t sure how he could go on, with lying, with pretending to be okay, with training, with racing. With everything.

It wasn’t that he wanted it all to end. He had things to stick around for, he had promises to keep. He didn’t want to miss out on the chance that maybe everything would just turn out all right.

But sometimes he just really wanted a break from it all.

_I try and I try, but I'm too sad to cry_

He gripped on tight to the metal railing, willing himself to cast off the numbness. But it hung on tighter. It wasn’t the pressure that got to him in the end, it wasn’t the sadness or the anger, it was the overwhelming feeling of nothing that consumed him.

He could have screamed, but he couldn’t cry anymore. 


End file.
